When Elves Attack

by Tim Dorsey

  Martha began shaking, and grabbed a fork like a weapon.

  Rita set her napkin on her plate. “I need to powder my nose. Jim, where do you keep the bleach?”

  Serge’s head snapped back. “Back up. Did you say ‘bleach’?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bleach,” said Serge. “Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?”

  “No, is there something wrong with that?”

  “Not if you’re cleaning needles to shoot heroin, but otherwise, yes.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” said Rita.

  “Jim,” said Serge. “I just ran the floor plan through my head, and you’re right. There isn’t enough room after all.”

  Rita looked perplexed. “But I thought you said a minute ago they had a lot of space.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty of room, just not for you.”

  “Did I say something wrong?” asked Rita.

  “ ‘Bleach,’ ” said Serge. “There’s a lot I don’t know about women, but I was married briefly, and I know about ‘bleach.’ ”

  “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “You’re talking to someone who practically invented mind games.” Serge stood and sneered. “Martha invited you into her home, and Jim is your loving son. And you come in here with so-called idle comments, which disrespect Martha, put Jim in an awkward spot, and insult their marriage. And somehow you enjoy deliberately fanning this unpleasantness.”

  “Well!” said Rita. “If I’m not welcome here!”

  “Don’t stay on my account,” said Serge. “I’ll even kick-start your broom.”

  “Oh! I never!” Rita grabbed her purse and stormed out the door.

  Serge turned back to face the stunned expressions around the table. “Oh my gosh, what have I done?” He lowered his head. “You must think I’m horrible. I can’t stop screwing up when it comes to your family. So I’m going to leave now, and I promise you’ll never see me again.”

  He started for the door.

  “No,” said Martha. “Come back and have a seat. Would you like some dessert?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  CHRISTMAS EVE

  A ’72 Chevelle whipped up the driveway.

  Coleman pulled something out of a bag. “It’s called a Yule log.”

  “Put that away,” said Serge. “It’s disgusting.”

  “Women dig it.” Coleman slid a switch. A humming sound. “Got three speeds. And a Christmas theme. Here are little reindeer along the side, and Santa’s cap on the end.”

  They got out of the car and headed for the house. “But why would you think a vibrator would be an appropriate gift for Martha?”

  “You said Jim asked you for help with a present.”

  “Just put it back in the bag before the neighbors see that horrible thing . . . Wait, what’s that music coming from the house?”

  “Early Jackson 5,” said Coleman. “ ‘Dancin’ Machine.’ ”

  “I know the song. It just sounds extra loud, and the girls usually aren’t up this early.” He stopped at the Christmas tree stuck in the doorway.

  “What’s that hanging from one of the branches?” asked Coleman.

  Serge held the satin in his hand. “First-place ribbon from the neighborhood committee.”

  They got on hands and knees, and crawled into the house.

  Serge slowly stood. “What the hell?”

  City and Country were dancing up a storm.

  “Yo, Serge,” said Country. “Your friends are a hoot.”

  City spun a shorter person, busting a tango move. “Never would have guessed you knew normal people.”

  Coleman nudged Serge in the ribs. “I think it’s the G-Unit.”

  “I know who they are . . . Hey, Edith, what on earth are you doing here?”

  Edith moved her arms up and down to the lyrics, performing the robot. “Just gettin’ my swerve on.”

  “I sensed that vibe.” Serge set his McMuffin breakfast on the table. “But how did you find me? I’m off the grid . . . If you could, then the cops . . .”

  “Take a chill pill,” said Country. “We get the credit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I went to check our Facebook page, except you were signed in, so we decided to take a peek at your circle of friends and found their message . . .”

  “. . . Figured why not invite ’em over?” said City. “At least it would break this stupid boring routine of you obsessing about Christmas.” She casually lifted a foot as a model train ran underneath. “Turned out they’re a blast.”

  “What’s that?” asked Edna.

  “What’s what?” asked Coleman, wadding up a shopping bag.

  “That thing you stuck on the shelf.”

  “It’s called a Yule log. It’s a—”

  “I know what it is,” said Edna. “Let me have it.”

  Coleman tossed, and Edna caught it on the fly.

  Edith reached. “I want to see it.”

  Edna pulled away. “I spotted it first.”

  Serge suddenly jumped.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.

  “Someone just goosed me.” Serge turned and wagged a finger at Eunice, who giggled and ran away.

  Coleman elbowed Serge again. “Old times.”

  No response.

  “Serge? . . . Serge, what is it?”

  Serge was concentrating on the view out the window. “There’s that Ford Focus station wagon again.”

  “What’s it doing?”

  “Slowing down outside the Davenport place. Now it’s speeding away, just like the Dodge Ram that won’t be coming by anymore. And the black Delta 88 I saw again this morning.”

  “Probably a coincidence.” Coleman raised tequila to his lips. “Let’s do something. It’s Christmas Eve.”

  Serge snapped his fingers. “You’re right! It is Christmas Eve. We’re required to do something, and I know exactly what that is.” He turned to a roomful of dancing. “Yo! G-Unit! . . .”

  “ . . . Stayin’ alive! Stayin’ alive, ooo, ooo, ooo, ooo . . . Stayin’ aliiiiiiiiiiive . . .”

  “Serge, the music’s too loud.”

  Serge made a shrill wolf whistle with two fingers in his mouth. “May I have your attention, please!”

  “Still too loud.”

  Serge reached for the volume knob on the stereo.

  “ . . . Stayin’ alive—”

  Silence.

  “Hey!” said Edith. “That’s our theme song.”

  “I have an important announcement to make.” Serge clapped his hands sharply for emphasis. “How’d you girls like to have some fun?”

  “We’re down with fun,” said Edna. “Count us in!”

  “Better hear what it is first,” said City. “Never know with these guys.”

  “It’s going to be great!” said Serge. “We’ll all go caroling!”

  Non-enthusiastic stares.

  “What’s the deal?” said Serge. “Everyone goes caroling.”

  “Sounds like we’ll take a pass,” said Country.

  “I can’t allow it,” said Serge. “Besides, you’re thinking of regular caroling. That’s what everyone does. We’re going Xtreme Caroling . . . I’m taking Christmas big!”

  “What’s Xtreme Caroling?” asked Eunice.

  Serge looked over his shoulder. “Coleman, get the boom box . . . Okay, ladies, here’s what we do . . .” And he laid it all out. When he was finished: “What do you think?”

  “I’m in,” said Ethel.

  “Me, too,” said Edith.

  “But what do we wear?” asked Eunice, gesturing at the G-Unit’s matching apparel. “We can’t go around the streets in our nightgowns and slippers.”

  “Already thought of that,” said Serge. “I know exactly what you need to wear.”

  “What?”

  “I’d like to surprise you.” He grabbed his car keys. “Come on, Coleman, supply run! . . . The rest of you start getting ready—and keep pract
icing what I showed you. It’ll be dark soon . . .”

  JUST AFTER DARK

  A ’72 Chevelle skidded back up the driveway.

  Serge scrambled under the Christmas tree in the doorway. He stood and raised a shopping bag in each hand. “You’re going to love it!”

  The G-Unit grabbed the sacks and pulled out the purchases. “We’re supposed to wear this?” said Edith.

  “It’ll be a gas,” said Edna. “Let’s put them on.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were all ready.

  Serge fit a green felt hat onto his head, and waved an arm forward like an infantry commander. “Follow me!”

  Under the Christmas tree they went.

  The unlikely alliance of eight people walked single file up Triggerfish Lane.

  “When do we get going?” asked Edna.

  “We’ll start at the end of the block,” said Serge. “Then work our way back down.”

  They reached the last house.

  Serge walked up the porch steps of a pastel-peach 1929 bungalow. A finger pressed a button.

  Ding-dong.

  Inside: “Honey, are you expecting anyone?”

  “No.”

  The door opened.

  “Hello—” The woman’s smile disappeared. Her expression didn’t become one of alarm as much as: Improper Data Input. “. . . Uh, can I help you?”

  “We’re carolers!” said Serge. “More specifically, Xtreme Carolers.”

  “I’ve never heard of Xtreme Carolers,” said the woman.

  “Nobody has, until now!” Serge turned to Coleman. “Hit it!”

  Coleman reached for a switch on the boom box . . .

  A minute later, the woman called into the house: “Honey, come quick. You have to see this.”

  Her husband trotted down the hall. “What is it?”

  “Just look.”

  Out on the lawn, a boom box thumped at top volume, heavy on the bass. Kool & the Gang’s “Jungle Boogie.” Except the carolers had modified the words.

  The G-Unit stood in a line, each wearing a tiny green elf suit. In unison they thrust their hips and pumped their fists by their sides, first to the left, then to the right.

  Edna and Edith: “ . . . Christmas boogie! Da-da-da, Da-da-da! Christmas boogie! Da-da-da, Da-da-da! . . .”

  Eunice and Ethel: “ . . . Get down, get down! . . . Get down, get down! . . .”

  Behind them, Coleman ran weaving and stumbling with a lit pair of sparklers in his hands. Coming the other way, Serge did a string of cartwheels the length of the yard. City and Country stood on the sidewalk, rolling their eyes and shaking their heads.

  “ . . . Christmas boogie! . . .”

  Edith: “Shake it around!”

  “ . . . Christmas boogie! . . .”

  Edna: “With the funk, y’all!”

  The song ended with a bow from the entertainers.

  The couple on the porch applauded heartily. “Bravo!”

  “Wait here,” said the woman, heading back into the house. “I want to get you something . . .”

  House after house, same reaction. More applause. “They’re so cute . . .”

  And on down the street. Coleman caught up with Serge on the sidewalk. “This is excellent. Everyone’s forcing eggnog on us.” He guzzled from a to-go cup. “I didn’t know people would just give you liquor if you knocked on their doors and did shit in their yards . . . Caroling rules!”

  “You need to be more careful with those sparklers. At the last house you singed your hair.”

  “I don’t mind.” He raised his cup to the sky. “Free booze!”

  Serge grabbed his arm.

  “Hey, man, it’s cool,” said Coleman. “Nobody’s going to pinch us for open containers on this street.”

  “It’s not that.” Serge stopped and watched red taillights slow down a half block away. “There’s that Delta 88 again, driving by Jim’s house.”

  “Probably a real estate agent.”

  “I got this feeling,” said Serge. “Just keep your eyes open.”

  More houses and applause, until they finally arrived at 888 Triggerfish Lane.

  “Martha,” said Jim. “Come out here and see this.”

  “ . . . Get down, get down! . . .”

  “Ahhh!” Coleman pulled off his burning elf hat and stomped on it.

  Serge pressed another button on the boom box.

  “ . . . It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes . . .”

  Clapping from the porch at the conclusion.

  “Why doesn’t everybody come inside and join us?” said Jim.

  “Yes,” said Martha. “Come on in. We have eggnog.”

  Coleman almost knocked everyone over running up the steps.

  Serge yelled after him: “Wipe your feet!”

  Coleman hit the brakes and shuffled elf shoes on the welcome mat.

  Soon they were all seated around the living room on sofas and lounge chairs. Small talk. Martha made the rounds, pouring eggnog in clear coffee cups.

  “Can I pick what’s on TV?” asked Serge, changing channels before getting an answer. “The Grinch is stealing Christmas.”

  Coleman found something in his pocket. “I brought you an ornament.” He hung a candy-cane shiv on their tree.

  Everyone smiled at one another in the warm hearth of holiday neighborliness.

  “It’s been a long time,” Jim told the G-Unit. “Where are you living now?”

  “We’re on the run,” said Edith.

  “They had us living in this rest home with condescending caregivers and afternoon pudding,” added Edna. “But we said bullshit on that.”

  Serge elbowed Coleman. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Coleman looked wide-eyed, up and down the Davenports’ Christmas tree. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re acting weird,” Serge snapped in a loud whisper.

  “The little lights,” Coleman said, entranced. “They’re like fireflies swirling around the tree, playing tiny harps.”

  “Did you take something again?”

  “Oh no, absolutely not,” said Coleman. “No, no, no. Yes, actually a lot.”

  “What did you take?”

  “Mistletoe.”

  Serge blinked hard. “Mistletoe?”

  Coleman nodded, snatching at the air with his hand for a nonexistent glow bug. “Mistletoe gets you high.”

  “But mistletoe’s poisonous,” said Serge. “Extremely poisonous. Severe gastrointestinal toxin, and a potentially life-threatening drop in pulse. The hallucinations are just a side effect.”

  “Fair trade-off.” Coleman snatched the air again. “Cool.”

  Serge grabbed his wrist. “We have to get that crap out of your stomach.”

  “Uh-oh.” Coleman put a hand on his tummy. “Think I’m going to be sick.”

  “Don’t you dare throw up on the sofa.” Serge pointed sideways with a thumb. “Martha just started liking us. Even if it’s just a small amount of puke, women get funny about it.”

  Coleman’s head began to loll. “Ooooo, definitely going to be sick.”

  “That’s the two-minute warning,” said Serge. “To the bathroom, now!”

  Serge propped Coleman up and began leading him with an arm around his waist.

  “Is everything okay?” Martha asked with concern.

  “Just something he ate,” said Serge.

  “Fireflies,” said Coleman, snatching air and opening an empty hand in disappointment.

  Serge grinned nervously at Martha. “Where’s your bathroom? Preferably one of the less nice.”

  Martha turned and pointed. “Just down the hall on the left.”

  “Thanks.” Serge gave Coleman a tug around the waist. “Come on, you!”

  Jim walked over to his wife. “Is everything all right?”

  “Something Coleman ate . . .”

  Outside, a vehicle with its lights off turned the corner of Triggerfish Lane and rolled slowly down the street. At the other e
nd of the block, another car came around the corner and also killed its lights. The first vehicle, a Ford Focus, slowed and parked at the curb three houses east of the Davenport residence. The other, a black Delta 88, parked three houses west.

  Drivers’ doors opened simultaneously. Two silhouettes ambled toward each other on the sidewalk. But their attention was elsewhere, eyes trained on the Davenports’ brightly lit porch.

  Inside, Martha smiled warmly at City and Country. “So where do you know Serge from?”

  “Saint Pete. We all had warrants at the time.”

  Martha maintained composure and decided to change the topic. “Edith? How’s life been treating you?”

  “Like a bitch on roller skates.” She handed Martha a small, gift-wrapped package with a big red bow.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s your present. Serge was helping Jim pick something out for you.”

  Martha unwrapped it and stared.

  “It’s called a Yule log,” said Edna. “Here’s the power switch.”

  A humming sound.

  “Trust me,” said Country. “It’ll rock your world like an earthquake. Especially if you put it in your—”

  “Okay!” Jim sprang to his feet. “Anyone need more eggnog? . . .”

  Meanwhile, in one of the back bathrooms, Serge held Coleman’s elf hat and kept his head aimed for minimal mess and explanation. “There you go, big boy, get it all out.”

  “Oooo God, that feels better . . . Wait, some more . . .”

  Back outside: Two silhouettes approached on the sidewalk, converging toward the Davenports’ home. Fifty yards apart, the two men noticed each other, but in the dim light each considered the pedestrian coming toward him to be just a harmless night stroller out for fresh air. The first one slowed, so the second would pass before they got to the house.

  The second one slowed, waiting for the other to pass.

  Slower and slower until they both came to a complete halt on the sidewalk, twenty yards apart.

  They squinted hard. Then their eyes flew open at the same time.

  “You!” yelled the fired mall cop.

  “You!” yelled the fired assistant mall manager.

  They charged and tackled each other on the Davenports’ lawn, rolling and clawing and pulling hair. Both reaching in vain for guns in ankle and belt holsters. A finger got bent back—“Ahhhh!”—an eye gouged—“Ahhhh! . . .”